On a Dog
If
I believed in Hell, I would expect there to be a particularly loathsome dungeon
for the torture of those who have abused the trust of dogs. Were I an advocate of capital punishment, I
would impose that offense upon those that have misused dogs. By evolution, dogs have made a contract with
human kind. The beast gives up its
cunning and wiles, its natural ferocity and, even much of its hunting instinct
in exchange for human company. Dogs have
relinquished their ability to survive without the assistance of human beings –
they have lost their capacity for the wild and their initiative for freedom in
order to become friends to mankind. This
is an inestimable gift: most of the time, the world regards us with indifference. Trees and boulders and waterfalls, prowling
grizzly bears and soaring hawks – these things no need for us; they are empty,
if beautiful, mirrors. In the eyes of
dog, however, our natural vanity – an aspect of the soul that is integral to
being human – has a mirror, can see itself reflected with some considerable
amount of the love and adoration which we naturally regard as our due. Without a barking dog, the night is listless,
a mere corridor of inhuman gloom.
I
suppose my thesis might be expanded to all domestic animals. The same analysis might be extended to goats
and sheep, cows, even turkeys and chicken.
With these animals, however, the contract is more utilitarian because
intrinsically gustatory – and I am not unmindful that the Shoshone that greeted
Lewis and Clark and the leopard-warriors of Tenochtitlan ate dogs – so the bond is less close. Nonetheless, in my ideal republic those who
mistreated domestic animals would be subject to the supreme penalty. One who kills a honeybee destroys one of the
legislators of the world.
My
dog Chi-chi was the daughter of pit bull appraised to be the dumbest dog ever
seen. The female pit bull came to its
owner, a man who kept hunting dogs, by marriage. Compared to his retrievers, I suppose, the
hapless pit bull wasn’t too bright, but everyone said that she was gentle and
had a good heart. The bitch had been
kept for breeding purposes, but she was promiscuous and the litter in which
Chi-chi was whelped looked to be part labrador and part terrier of some
kind. The puppies were tiny and very
cute. When she was little, Chi-chi slept
curled up in an abandoned frying pan that my daughters kept on our porch for
playing house.
The
name Chi-chi is a corruption of Theresa.
My smallest child, Angelica, had trouble pronouncing the name of her
older sister, Theresa. The noise that
she made came out “Chi-chi.” Somehow
these sounds were applied to the dog.
The relationship between a puppy and small children is complicated and
so the name that one child applied to an older sibling also became the name of
the puppy. Linguists and anthropologists
possibly could explain how this happened.
I can not.
In
a way, the name was unfortunate. My
neighbors across the street are a wholesome, hardworking Mexican family. The word “Chi-chi” in Mexican Spanish is a
vulgarism like “titties.” The little
girl in Mexican family sometimes call Chi-chi “the dog whose name is not to be
spoken.”
Chi-chi
was tiny at first, but she had big paws and, in six months, the dog had grown
to be a big, powerful animal with a broad, pale white chest. Chi-chi was the generic mutt – the outcome of
random breeding: an animal with an intelligent vaguely jackal-shaped head,
yellow, with an upraised, eloquent tail like a question-mark. She was immensely strong. Once straining at her leash, she half-pulled
my right shoulder out of joint – I had to have an MRI (I didn’t fit in the
capsule), consultations with an orthopaedic surgeon and 12 weeks of physical therapy.
Because
she was large and active, I walked Chi-chi five days a week. Sometimes, I would walk her every day in the
week. We had five different routes, each
of which Chi-chi marked every hundred yards by lifting her leg like a male
dog. One route lead past the High School
up along 4th Street and, then, back on a parallel residential lane –
the route passed the home of a man who put up a sign saying that if my dog
“visited his bushes” he would call the mayor to have me punished. Another route went south to a narrow sidewalk
that turned toward the American Legion post and the empty lots where people
parked during the County Fair. Another
way that we walked lead us through the park, past the bandshell and picnic
shelter retrieved from the ruins of an Episcopal Church flooded-out some years
earlier. Another route went to the mall
and the Dairy Queen and lead back by the flowering bushes in front of the
McDonald’s – in good weather, you could hear the voices from inside the
restaurant greeting people in cars and taking their orders. Once, while walking past McDonald’s, a
Mexican man told me that he admired my dog and said “Amigo, I have one like
that in Texas.” He said that he knew my dog was very fierce
and a good fighter because of the “war collar” I had around her neck – that was
a stainless steel loop with points turned inward onto the scruff of the dog’s
throat. The last route took me past
liquor stores to the Courthouse and the war memorial than back along
east-facing dowdy towers of the old High School to my home and the fenced backyard
where Chi-chi spent her days. (She slept
in an utility room off my kitchen at night).
Chi-chi
loved her walks. Along the route that
lead through the park, there was a big wooded lawn where squirrels darted and
played rolling back to a church in the shade of the elms. Sometimes, I would drop the leash so Chi-chi
could chase the squirrels. Of course,
they always escaped to chatter at her from the trees while she dipped her nose
in their delicious scents arrayed like a blossoming skirt around the elm’s
trunk.
I
put Chi-chi down on Thursday, June 17, 2010 at about nine-o’clock in the
morning. She had been very sick and was
comatose when the veterinarian stopped her heart with an injection of poison. Her death taught me something important about
dying.
When
my father died, he had been hospitalized for eight or ten days, laboring
against a failed heart. The nurses
attended to his hygiene, brushed his teeth, and gave him baths with sponges. They trimmed his beard as he lay helpless in
his hospital bed. When he died, my
father made a plump, pink corpse, a neat and well-groomed head and torso
extruded from white sheets, although biting down hard, it seemed, at a bluish
plastic tube, like a cigar, between his lips.
The day before he died, my father said to my mother that he was sure
that he wasn’t going to make it. He said
that he felt “all worn out.”
I
didn’t understand what he meant. He
didn’t look all worn out. He looked more or less like he always looked.
We
think of death, often, as a bolt from the blue – as bullet piercing the heart
or a stroke, a sudden sneak attack. But,
of course, that’s not how death does it work.
Rather, the process of dying, often, is one of isolation, increasing
weakness, dilapidation, systematic, but slow, collapse. That is how Chi-chi died and I think there
was a lesson in it.
About
six weeks before she collapsed, Chi-chi seemed disoriented. During our walks, she would often stand
still, nibbling at a fern or a green weed, confused, it appeared, as to where
we were. She lagged behind and the gait
in her front legs was irregular – sometimes, she missed her footing and lunged
forward to catch herself from falling.
It was our custom to walk twenty blocks, but, after five or six now, she
was exhausted, panting heavily and had to rest on the boulevard by the
curb. She licked at her flanks until the
fur was all rubbed away and bleeding patches the size of silver dollars covered
her hips and sides. Chi-chi always
suffered from bad allergies in the late Spring and Summer and her eyes were
matted and gooey and black matter ran down her face so that it seemed that she
was weeping dark, tarry tears. Until she
was old, the allergies always faded as the summer advanced, but, during the
last couple of years, I had been alarmed – particularly by the excoriated
patches on her legs and flanks – and so I took her to the veterinarian. They injected Chi-chi, snarling and writhing
on the stainless steel table, with cortisone and antibiotic and, then, I gave
her a dose of analgesic for her arthritis daily, in a wad of peanut butter and
bread.
This
May, however, and early June, the infection seemed worse and the damaged patch
on her side was the size of a CD, bloody and raw, and long, thick ribbons of
white foam dangled from her jaws and chin, bearding her in a kind of
froth. Further, the dog somehow
lacerated her head, over and over again, right above her eyes, and she had a
brow wrinkled and scabby with scar tissue.
She no longer wagged her tail when I said we were going to walk. She missed steps, fell off the curb, and,
after twenty or thirty paces, simply sat down, putting her muzzle in the grass
to search out and eat weeds.
Alarmed,
I took Chi-chi to the vet. The vet said
that the dog had an infection and bad allergies but that she was otherwise
healthy. Using a flashlight, the vet
looked in Chi-chi’s eyes and told me that she was mostly blind – her eyes are
full of cataracts, the vet said. The vet
took some blood and called me an hour later to say that the dog was old, but
still healthy.
We
went home. Chi-chi seemed a little
better and could walk three or four blocks without a rest. But her footing was still uncertain. She banged her head on trees and fences. Once, when I was walking, she lagged
behind. I heard her scream, turned, and
saw that the dog had caught one of the claws on her hind paw in a stanchion
supporting a road barricade. The road
had been shredded to clots of earth and Chi-chi had somehow trapped one of her
claws in a screw hole in the stanchion support and, now, her leg was
dangerously twisted and she was screaming.
This alarmed me because Chi-chi was a fantastically strong dog that
never cried-out. (When she would get
into fights with other dogs, I would beat her across the shoulders and head
with a four-foot walking stick that I carried – of course, I didn’t dare beat
the other guy’s dog – and so intent was she on the duel with the other animal
that she wouldn’t even flinch.) I freed
her foot from the trap, petted her on the scabby head, and, then, we walked
–Chi-chi limping – back home.
Four
days before she died, Chi-chi seemed to rally.
She danced and pranced in the back yard, wagging her tail, when I asked
if she wanted to “go for a walk.” We
went to the Law Office, a total of eight blocks, and, although, Chi-chi was
panting heavily, she seemed back to her old self.
The
next night, Chi-chi threw up gallons of pinkish vomit in the utility room. I kicked her and, then, pushed her outside
where she spent the night in her heavy, two-room dog house. In the morning, she came out of the dog house
and lay on the paving stones, but would not eat. When I came home, she was still lying on her
side, flies crawling on her muzzle, unable to eat. I put her water bowl next to her. She lifted her head and looked at me sadly,
then, put her head down again. Julie was
afraid that Chi-chi would crawl over to her den and die inside the back,
inaccessible room of the dog house. She
told me to bar the entrance to the dog house.
I went into the fenced back yard where Chi-chi lived at about nine and
found that she had, in fact, somehow reached her dog house and vanished into
that warm, foul-smelling den. “She will
die in her dog house,” I said. I
couldn’t sleep. It bothered me to think
of the dog all alone in that black, wooden den.
At
dawn, I came downstairs and heard her crying loudly. I went into the backyard and found Chi-chi
lying fifteen feet from her dog house.
Her paws and forepaws and her belly was all covered in black mud. She had apparently crept out of the dog house
and crossed the back yard crawling on her belly. I petted her head and tried to give her some
water. She was too weak to lift her
muzzle over the rim of the drinking bowl.
I went inside and got a soup bowl full of ice chips which I put under
her nose. She cried a little but didn’t
lick at the ice. Her muzzle was pretty
much sutured shut with dried phlegm and foam had come from her mouth and dried
in thick, adhesive bands over her whiskers.
She was very dirty and smelled bad and her ears looked infected – they
were raw with yellow pus inside. She
looked decrepit, dilapidated, all worn-out.
I set the drinking bowl full ice and water under her nose. For a moment, she put her nose on the rim of
the bowl and I thought Chi-chi was going to drink, but, then, her head dropped
and she lay there, motionless, her flanks rising up and down, and, now, her
head all lopsided because the point of her nose was still balanced on the
bowl’s rim.
A
dying dog is very heavy, dead-weight, that flops against you and yearns to drop
down to the ground. I carried the dog
against my belly into the house and lay her on a blanket in the utility
room. She began to cry loudly. Then, I picked her up and put her on a
blanket on the couch in the living room so that she could watch Tv with
Angelica. I went to work.
Angelica
called me twenty minutes later and said that the dog had begun crying, had
wriggled off the couch and fallen onto the floor where she was now lying in her
own excrement. I came home, carried
Chi-chi to the back of my van. She lay
across the blanket there with her eyes dull and half-open, her belly twitching a little up and down. She was very dirty and I felt that, perhaps,
I should wash her off or something – but Chi-chi was not a dog that had ever
taken a bath and I didn’t know how she would respond to water poured on her.
The
veterinarian said: “It’s time.” She told
me “Chi-chi is all worn-out.” The lady
vet was plump and pretty with big eyes.
She used a razor to shear off Chi-chi’s fur above her right front
paw. Then, she inserted a large-gage
needle into a vein. The syringe was blue
and attached to a transparent bluish plastic tube. About eighteen inches upstream from the
syringe, there was a double chamber with a kind of screw on it. The lady veterinarian turned the screw and,
then, injected the mixture into the dog by pushing down on the syringe. When the poison reached Chi-chi’s heart, she
took six or seven gulps of air, very quickly, and, then, turned her head up as
if trying to lift her nose so that it would be at right angles to her
back. I told Chi-chi that she was a good
dog and stroked her head. Her eyes
became very bright once more and gleaming.
Then, she shook slightly and the vet put a stethoscope to her breast to
verify that she was dead. The dog’s tail
wagged weakly. “That will happen,” the
vet said. “It is just nerves still firing.”
The
lady vet and her helper asked me if I wanted the ashes. I put my hand on Chi-chi’s side. “No,” I said.
“It’s a dead dog.” “Okay,” the
lady vet said. They asked me if I wanted
to keep her collar: “No,” I said, “it’s too sad.”
I
went out in the lobby to pay the bill.
In another room, people were laughing.
It was someone’s birthday and the staff were making jokes about being
‘over-the-hill.’ I looked at the
various collars, flea lotions, ointments, nutrition supplements. The receptionist handed me a bill for $130
dollars. After I paid, the receptionist
said that she was very sorry. I didn’t
know what to say and went to my car and drove back to work.
These
are the landmarks in a dog’s life.
Chi-Chi
was separated from her siblings too soon and was never properly socialized with
other dogs. She approached stranger dogs
with her tail wagging and, then, without warning, lunged forward to seize the
other animal by the jowl. Her ambition
was to kill all other dogs.
When
she was about eleven months old, I had Chi-chi spayed. She licked the sutures and brooded on the
operation for two days from within her plastic kennel in the utility room. Then, she was fine.
When
Jack was about eleven, I had him walk Chi-chi around the block. I was busy and couldn’t spare the time to
walk her. A local lady had a little
black fur-ball of a dog that she walked.
Chi-chi saw the fur-ball, broke free from Jack, and attacked the little
beast hurling it from her jaws through the air.
Jack got control of Chi-chi and came home to tell me that she had
attacked the little black dog and that the lady “was real mad.” Sure enough, the lady came to my porch,
carrying her little dog. She was
indignant and the little dog seemed limp, perhaps, suffering some kind of
canine shock. The little dog lolled on
her arms showing its pinkish-blue belly.
I said that if my dog had injured the little creature, she should have
the animal treated by a veterinarian and I would pay all reasonable
charges. “It was irresponsible of you to
make that little boy walk that big, mean dog,” the lady said. As it happened, the little dog was stunned, but,
not, otherwise hurt. Yesterday, I saw
that same lady, older I suppose and greyer, walking her nasty little black
rodent. It pained me to think of poor
Chi-chi dead and gone and that wicked little black rat still parading through
the the world.
When
she was young, I gave Chi-chi big ox bones to gnaw. As she grew older, and stronger, she reduced
the bones to slivers which she, then, ate whole and vomited out the next
day. Sometimes, she would dig holes next
to the house and bury her bones.
Once,
I got mad at her for pulling so hard against the leash. I said: “I’m going to pull your head
off.” I yanked at the dog as hard as I
could. She yanked back and pulled my
shoulder out of joint.
On
our walk past the High School up along Fourth Street, there was a small white
fluffy dog called Snowball residing in a fenced backyard. Chi-chi loved to lunge and snarl and growl at
Snowball. Snowball, for her part, raced
along the fence-line taunting Chi-chi with high-pitched yelps. We saw Snowball every four or five days and
Chi-chi looked forward to trying to thrust her muzzle through the chain-link
fence so that she could shake the little white fluffy creature to death. One day, Snowball wasn’t there. Chi-chi never forgot a house or a yard where
a dog lived and she trotted back and forth along the fence-line growling and
snarling and howling for Snowball to come out and play. Snowball’s collection of sooty-looking tennis
balls lay scattered about the back yard and her silver bowl was by the back
steps to the house. But Snowball was
gone. A week later, a little girl who
lived in the house told us that Snowball had got out and been run over by car.
Once,
my sister’s husband, Roger, came to our house for supper. Roger raised exotic toads, snakes, and turtles. He had just finished feeding some dead rats,
carefully thawed in the microwave, to his boa constrictors. Chi-chi sniffed Roger’s hands, snarled and
her ears flattened against her head.
Verily, I have encountered the Devil, Chi-chi’s demeanor seemed to
say. She leaped up to try to tear off
his face.
A
couple months later, a friend of ours brought a woman from Chicago over to our house. The woman was a crook, a malingerer, a
parasite, and a con-man. Chi-chi lunged
at her and tried to tear her face off.
Chi-chi
never bit any human being. She attacked
and bit many, many dogs.
Along
our route by the Dairy Queen, there was a big Rottweiler that lived down the
alleyway. The man who owned the
Rottweiler seemed to know me, but I couldn’t place him. He sometimes called me by my first name when
we strolled past his home. This was
disconcerting because the man’s tone was clearly unfriendly and he seemed to be
some kind of thug. One afternoon, he let
his Rottweiler loose and the dog tore down the alley and leaped at
Chi-chi. Chi-chi very cooly dodged and
seized the Rottweiler by its jowls. She,
then, began shaking her jaw to try to rip the dog’s muzzle apart. The Rottweiler screamed and tried to retreat
but Chi-chi held her fast in her jaws. I
took my club and beat Chi-chi on the shoulders six or seven time as hard as I
could and, only then, did she let the Rottweiler free. The big black dog bolted back down the
alley. The thug who owned the dog looked
half-drunk. “I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry,
he just got loose,” the man said. “It’s
okay,” I said. “You didn’t need to hit
my dog with your stick, John,” the man said.
“I didn’t,” I said. “I hit my own
dog.” Chi-chi was lunging and pulling at
the leash. “Well, I’m really sorry that
my dog bit your dog, I’m just really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I walked
away very quickly. I wanted to get out
on the avenue by the Dairy Queen and the McDonald’s before the man discovered
what Chi-chi had done to his Rottweiler.
During
a thaw, once, a big, fat muskrat came out from a den near the river and ambled
across the puddled lawns by the bandshell.
It was a March night with full, buttery moon. Chi-chi pulled hard on my leash and so I let
her go. She charged the muskrat. There was a brief ferocious encounter, then,
Chi-chi shrieked and came trotting back to me wagging her tail. The muskrat had bit her right through her
cheek, but Chi-chi was very happy and pranced all the way home.
A
year before she died, Chi-chi chased a squirrel up a tree. It was an old squirrel and very fat and,
perhaps, blind as well. The squirrel
darted up the tree, but didn’t see a protruding branch on which it struck its
head. Dazed, the squirrel dropped down
right into Chi-chi’s jaws. Chi-chi shook
her head, bit down hard, and, then, let the squirrel loose. It fled across the lawn, running crookedly as
if all its joints had been dislocated.
Chi-chi looked at the squirrel but didn’t try to pursue it. In fact, she seemed a little surprised at how
badly her jaws had damaged the squirrel.
She shook her head against the leash and barked once or twice but didn’t
chase the wounded animal.
A
week before she died, Chi-chi trotted up to me in the back yard as I was
grilling. Two baby crows had fallen from
a nest somewhere overhead and she had them in her jaws. She wagged her tail. Her eyes were gleaming: “Look what I found
for you, boss!” the dog said. The baby
crows were still half-alive, squirming a little against the dog’s teeth. I tried to pull them free but it was obvious
that I would injure them worse than they were already hurt pulling them out of
Chi-chi’s grip. She danced back behind
the gazebo. When I looked at her, ten
minutes later, she was carefully eating the crows – beaks, claws, feathers and
all. There was a distinct frothy grin on
her face.
I
would guess I walked my yellow dog 2500 times.
Most of the time I walked my dog after work. On many occasions, I came home angry and sour
with the world and felt a little better after having allowed the dog to drag me
fifteen or twenty blocks.
Since
my dog died, I’ve tried a few walks on my own.
But my pace is all wrong – I go either too fast or too slow. And it’s as if I’m looking at the world
through only one eye, with no nose.
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